Death Excites Me
by Princess Destiny
Summary: Sherlock and John have just met, and since his new roommate moved in that morning there's been a tension between them. John had killed for him and the detective can't get that out of his head. When he sees John cleaning his gun, Sherlock can't help but feel turned on, but it's clear that his new partner has rather a dark side that he really wants to let free.


Hello everyone! This is my very first Slash Fanfic (That you've seen). I love writing for it and also have a couple of **Supernatural** Fanfics to send out. Primarily, Castiel/Dean and Gabriel/Sam, but I'm also working on some Sam/Dean. This story is 1/3 and the next one has been completed as well. I fully intend to write more of them, progressing Sherlock and John's sexual relationship as I go.

I hope that you'll enjoy!

Please leave me a review if you like it. I adore them. :)

Also, check out my first published story on Amazon, called **The Honoured Guest**. It's published under the Author name **Aurelia Destiny**.

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* * *

 **DEATH EXCITES ME**

By Princess Destiny

 **[** **aureliasdestinyATgmailDOTcom** **]**

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 **Chapter One**

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John Watson was utterly _fascinating_.

He had decided it.

Sherlock literally couldn't take his eyes from his new roommate, as the former soldier unpacked his meagre possessions into his new room at Baker Street. John was clearly unsettled a little by how the detective's eyes left him as he moved about the room.

His gaze moved over the seeming mild-manner, ordinary man, dressed in his sweater and brown slacks. To the untrained eye, he did not seem like a threat. Like a former soldier. Admittedly, he had himself underestimated him. Oh yes, he had immediately discerned what the man had been and why he had been discharged, but he had miscalculated rather a lot.

He could privately admit that John Watson had surprised him and that did _not_ happen often.

"Are you going to just stand there, or do you want to help?" John snapped, frowning a little as he shoved his underwear into a draw. He went to close it and then sighed and reached back in to straighten the under-daks, his military training kicking in. He wondered if the rest of his life would be affected by the order that had practically been beaten into them by the army. Most likely?

His brown eyes flickered over Sherlock and saw that he was still giving that disconcerting look from his amazing eyes. He couldn't decide if they were more blue, or green, and they seemed to change colour.

"You're doing a fine job on your own, John," Came the amused reply, a shoulder set to the door jamb. Sherlock looked elegant and relaxed in his black slacks and purple shirt, and he knew that somehow that fact irritated John. He was rather pleased with that. He did wonder if it was the penetrating stare aimed at the smaller man that had him looking like he swallowed a lemon, or something else... He certainly was as aware of the detective as the man was of him.

"Why are you staring at me, Sherlock?" He finally growled out, glowering at the detective. Fine dark brows rose in a rather mocking manner and he gritted his teeth. He liked this man, he really _did_ , but he also annoyed the shit out of him. They got on like a house on fire, but he could already tell that they'd have fights. Being stared at as if he were something particularly fascinating under a microscope was annoying as all hell!

Sherlock touched a finger to his bottom lip and looked thoughtful. "I am trying to figure out something." he admitted.

"Figure out what?"

He smirked and turned to leave. "I'll be sure to let you know when I figure it out." he threw back over his shoulder.

"Bloody git." John muttered under his breath, trailing his roommate out into the hall and heading down the stairs to the kitchen. He passed the curly-haired man, who was standing at the living room window and looking out with a pensive expression. He didn't even acknowledge his progress across the room. "I need a tea." He decided. Tea; nice and warm, and calming. Yes, just the thing.

He reached for the fridge handle and pulled it open, pursuing the contents. Then he froze in disbelief and growing horror, eyes going wide. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "Why is there a bloody severed foot next to the milk?"

"Don't touch it," Sherlock called back in mild irritation. "I'm conducting an experiment."

John shook his head, lips curled in distaste. He grabbed the milk and opened cupboard doors until he found the sugar, tea, teaspoon, and two cups. "Cup of tea?" He asked the other man, hand paused with a teabag over the second cup.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," He poured the water into his cup and stirred the milk in, then walked into the lounge and sat down. He immediately felt two eyes boring into the back of his head and stiffened. Why was Sherlock staring at him _again_? Didn't the man have anything else to do?

He surreptitiously rubbed a hand over his mouth, just in case he'd left the crumbs of food or something there, and the detective hadn't decided to tell him. Nothing.

How ordinary John was acting, with his fuzzy brown sweater, his cup of tea, and the morning paper he'd just picked up. Sherlock stared at the ex-military man in some wonder, eyes narrowing. Perhaps the ex-soldier wasn't as good as he appeared to be? Perhaps he had a slightly sociopathic quality as well? Something just seems _off_ with the jovial, ordinary face of John Watson.

Something...dangerous.

He liked it a lot.

* * *

For the next half an hour while John sipped his tea, his new roommate was at his absolute most manic and irritating, staring intensely till he couldn't take the scrutiny any more.

When Mrs Hudson went out, John went back up to his room to clean his gun. He really ought to have done so the night before and felt a little ashamed. His supervising officers in the military would have had his head if they'd heard he'd fired a weapon and then didn't clean the barrel and reload. This routine was all that tended to keep him sane since he was wounded and discharged.

Once again, he felt the intent stare of Sherlock, but he ignored it deliberately as he mounted the stairs and went along the hall to his room. John entered and hesitated to shut the door, hand hovering over the handle. He had only been there for less than 24 hours. Did he really want to isolate himself already? Especially from a man whom he'd become remarkably close to in such a short amount of time?

Sherlock Holmes was an enigma, and he was bloody brilliant, and annoying...but he would never be boring to be around.

Since he'd met John, they'd already faced down a serial killer, he'd begun to walk without a cane, he'd been part of a daring taxi chase across the city, and he'd killed a man for someone he'd just met. Someone that he'd had an _instant_ connection for.

There was a slight noise at the door and his head jerked up to see Sherlock standing there. He was somehow not surprised. Didn't the man have anything better to do? What the bloody hell was so interesting about John that the world-famous detective couldn't keep his gaze from him?

He gave a frown of annoyance and got up from his bed, going to his chest of draws. He pulled out the top one and pushed up some socks, fingers finding the hard smooth wood of the box. He pulled it out and went back to the bed and then retrieved the kit he used to clean the gun from on top of his wardrobe.

Sherlock watched with interest as the other man methodically began to dismantle his gun onto his bed and lap, and cleaned the parts, making sure oil and wipe them down meticulously. He caressed that gun as it was a lover and the detective couldn't help but lick his lips. There was something about the long, skilful, calloused fingers practically caressing the gun, that made him feel something that he never had before.

Was it lust?

Yes, he believed that it was. Good lord. This unassuming man had _killed for him_. No one had ever done that before. No one had ever cared enough.

It wasn't just that though. He was 99.8% certain that John Watson had thoroughly enjoyed killing that cabbie. It was there in his eyes, that night, right now. He might be able to hide it from other, but never from him. "You enjoyed it, John. Didn't you?" he murmured, just loud enough for the ex-soldier to hear.

He saw the form go stiff and eyes shot up to meet his own, wide and incredulous. There was some emotion there before it was hidden. Sherlock filed that look away in his memory palace for dissection at a later time.

His gaze flickered over the hands that now held the barrel of the pistol in a bruising grip, as if he were barely restraining himself. His lips parted breathlessly and he felt an insane need to push John beyond his limits. To make him lose control. How beautiful that would be!

He shifted in the doorway, tempted to pull down the tail ends of his shirt to hide his burgeoning erection. Would John even look down there? He doubted that fact. The man thought himself completely straight. However, the date he had gathered since their meeting made Sherlock believe he was borderline bi-sexual. There had been that misunderstanding in Angelo's restaurant, where he had told John that he was not interested

"Enjoyed what, Sherlock?" John demanded, his head rising from his task, with eyes narrowed . It was the first time that the detective had spoken since appearing in his doorway twenty minutes ago.

He had watched silently as the gun was cleaned, and every time the soldier had glanced up, he had seen the wheels turning in that intelligent head. He hadn't been sure what Sherlock had been thinking on though. Now he knew. But, surely he wasn't referring to shooting a man dead?

No, Sherlock had known him for less than twenty-four hours. He was just guessing.

A very accurate guess at that.

"Killing that serial killer. For me." The detective clarified, watching the minute changes to John's expression, that betrayed his thoughts in dozens of tiny little muscles.

"You're _wrong_." He denied automatically, going pale. He didn't enjoy killing! He never had. It had been out of necessity. How ungrateful of the git to bring this sort of thing up! It rankled.

"Am I? No, I don't think that I am wrong on that score. You quite enjoyed killing that man, for a roommate that you had known for a mere few hours. Did you know that your breathing was still erratic, eyes dilated, a slight flush to your cheekbones that betrayed a lingering excitement? I miss nothing." Sherlock smiled. "It isn't unlike sexual arousal."

John eyed him in some horror over that one. Surely not sexual arousal from cold-bloodedly killing a man? He hadn't sunk that low...had he? "Perhaps you miss everything-" He retorted stiffly.

"Oh, don't be so tediously dull! You are infinitely more interesting than I first suspected." Sherlock licked his lips, feeling a stirring in his groin as he recalled watching the serial killer fall at his feet, bright crimson spreading through his clothing. He's been caught unawares. Clearly it hadn't been any of Lestrade's team. No, someone else. It had taken a frustrating amount of minutes to attempt to divine who his savior had been, but then all the dots had connected.

John Watson. A man who had not appeared in any way complex, whose character had seemed to be an open book, _had_ killed a man in cold blood, for a virtual stranger. That implied an instant connection on an emotional level. He had also turned down the temptation of Mycroft's money in order to spy on his brother.

Sherlock was feeling an almost unrecognizable emotion as he stared intently at John, eyes trailing over his fuzzy jumper, gray slacks, and scuffed comfortable shoes; possessiveness. He didn't want to share John with anyone. He wanted that tinge of darkness inside the blonde man all for himself. It matched his own.

"You felt alive again, for the first time since Afghanistan. There was no hesitation to shoot that man, once you had divined that I was about to swallow the pill."

"No," John denied, shaking his head. Sherlock wasn't right. He couldn't be. But the fact remained that he had shot dead a man, though he had been a serial killer, to protect his need roommate. He had tried to bury that dark side of him deep, but it was showing cracks lately. Before this manic genius had come along, he'd been about to blow his own head off, his purpose in life having gone with his career.

"A die for a die." He murmured, rubbing a distracted and across his forehead and smearing it with oil.

"Yes, quite," The detective replied, fascination in his gaze. It was easy enough to follow what John had been thinking. "I saved your life and you saved mine." His head tilted to the side, seeing a flare of something in the other's eyes.

 _Did that mean that they belonged to each other?_ What an oddly tempting, yet irrational, thought.

John squared his shoulders and looked down at the gun. "It won't happen again," He said firmly, still recalling his anger and yes, worry, that his foolish new roommate had actually willingly left with a serial killer. Had endangered his life...for what? "why did you go with him? You could have let me know. Lestrade. Hell, most of the police force was there in our home! It would have been an easy thing."

"I dislike the easy way, intensely, John." He sneered, as if it were a dirty word. You'll know me better soon enough; my methods. No, it was far more instructional to go with him. I wanted to get inside of his mind. Though I had mostly figured out his reasons. It's pure logic in it's highest form."

John's eyes went to him in growing realization. "You like baiting dangerous people. Seeing how they'll react. You really _are_ a sociopath."

Sherlock grinned. "Do not make the mistake of putting me neatly into a characterisation. Though in this instance, it maybe be entirely correct." He mused in a considering manner.

"You daft sod!" The blonde man whispered, fury flashing in his eyes. He'd killed a man - with an illegal forearm - for this sociopath? But good god, was something inside of him _thrilled_ by the act. He'd fired that bullet in order to protect, but also because something inside of him had wanted to just...feel again. To have that rush, that exhilaration, that satisfaction that he'd taken down a strong opponent.

But to have Sherlock amused by it all was infuriating!

He toyed with his own life as if it were a game.

His fist was flying towards the detective's face before the thought had even connected in his brain. Sherlock's eyes showed a momentary stunned reaction seconds before the solid bone and skin hit him in his mouth. There was an impact and then John's hand was dropping and a trail of bright crimson was flowing over his chin.

There was a silence, John's expression a mixture of disbelief, anger, and concern, as the doctor in him saw the torn lower lip. He watched as the taller man stood frozen, face blank. Then his eyes narrowed and a strange expression spread over his face. His pink tongue came out, licking over the bloody wound, gaze hardening as it flickered towards his roommate.

That action _shouldn't_ have inflamed his senses, but it did.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." He faltered in some horror. He'd just punched him!

"Boring," Sherlock replied harshly, his fist balling up. He cracked John across the ribs with a calculated hit, aiming not break the bones, but to wound. John's breath whooshed out and he doubled over. The expected retaliation came as the smaller man leapt up and they practically threw themselves at each other, fists flying, legs flailing and curses on their lips.

"You enjoy the rush of adrenaline from a potentially lethal situation, as much as I," He hissed into john's ear as he painfully jerked back the handful of short blonde hand in his right hand. "It might not have been the initial reason that you joined the military, but it soon became like a drug."

John winced and dipped free, elbowing Sherlock in the solar plexus. "Shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about, Sherlock." He retorted in denial. Was there nothing this man couldn't divine? His brilliance was frightening. "I care about people. I was a doctor first and a soldier second."

"Yes, quite the conundrum, aren't you?" Sherlock scrutinised the other man as they fell back slightly, panting, bruised and bloody. "You like to protect, to heal, to care about people. But you can also be a cold-blooded killer."

John bellowed in rage over that insult and tackled Sherlock to he ground, finger seeking out the joint in the detective's right shoulder. Sherlock flinched and gritted his teeth, then he gasped and bucked up. They both went still as a betraying hardness pressed into the blonde man from below. "You're-" He said blankly.

"You also. How interesting, Dr Watson." The detective practically purred, looking between the thighs straddling his hips. John's cock was straining at his slacks.

"Oh god," He closed his eyes for a moment, fingers still digging into Sherlock's shoulder, the other hand wrapped into the man's purple shirt over his chest to hold him there. Hips thrashed below him again, rubbing an erection into his backside and his lashes flew up. No, no this wasn't happening. He didn't like _men_. And the one under him was a self professed asexual sociopath, who was married to his work. Who clearly got off on danger and physical altercations.

"I never actually told you that I was asexual," Sherlock murmured, his brows rising at the conflict on John's face. "But the rest of our deductions are quite right." He frowned. "You're quite correct, John, you aren't gay. It appears to be just myself that you currently find you are experiencing an attraction towards. Of course the heightened situation, which has sent all manner of chemical impulses firing through our brain and bodies, is adding to this response."

"Jesus," John slumped into him. Maybe he'd made a huge miscalculation in moving in with this virtual stranger, who had already uprooted his life in so many ways. But going back to that tiny room with it's old bed and worn walls, with only his own memories of glory and his gun, was even more unbearable. "I-"

"You aren't leaving. I won't allow it." Sherlock reached up and wrapped his long fingers around both of John's wrists and pulled his arms wide, throwing the blonde into the side and then quickly rolling on top of him. John blinked up at him as he found himself pinned down, wrists beside his head in a tight grip. He ground his arousal into his roommate, smirking as he heard a breathless gasp. Yes, this was quite satisfactory a response.

"Stop it," John demand in embarrassment, eyes wide as Sherlock continued to grind his cock into is lower stomach, evoking some quite distressing stirrings of lust. He was ignored, gray eyes looking down into his own with a dark hungry intensity. He shivered and tried to look away, attempted to remove his wrists from the bruising hold, but was denied both.

A curly head of hair lowered and there was hot breath on the smaller man's throat above the shirt. Then heat and wetness, lips clamping down onto his skin, the brush of teeth. "What are you doing?!" He shouted, writhing about to get free. God, that felt incredible. But wrong; so wrong.

Sherlock drew back, eyes gleaming. "Obvious," He breathed, eyes trailing over the hickey on John's throat. The burst capillaries on tanned skin looked quite striking actually. He stopped to consider for a moment, mind turning over the unbearable need to just mark the body beneath his own. How curious. How bewildering.

"You told me only yesterday that you're married to your work."

"Mmm, true. My brain is, but perhaps my body has other ideas."

Something inside of John's mind had a mini implosion then. The sheer sexiness of the light in Sherlock's eyes was breathtaking, his tone something of a sultry purr.

John suddenly surged up in panic and managed to wrest his wrists free, flipping the detective over so that he was on top, thighs tight to Sherlock's hips. The other man looked startled, but he could still feel the hardness of them both brushing through their slacks. In some horror, and desperation, he reached for the only thing that he could rely on. That he had relied on for all of those years in the military. His pistol. His fingers crossed over cold steel.

As the man under him watched with wide eyes, something dark in the depths, he pressed the gun against his temple hard. "Stop it!" he snarled, gaze wild.

"John," Sherlock whispered in some awe. He had been surprised and then felt a rush of lust. John had turned the gun on him! He didn't feel threatened at all, but seeing such a dark, wild dangerous look in the other man's eyes was like a rush of adrenaline. This unassuming ex-soldier was affecting him like no other ever had.

His lips parted and he licked them. "Will you use it on me, John?" he asked curiously, laying flat with the man's thighs gripping his hips, his arms over his head. He was aware that he presented as someone who had completely surrendered. How tantalising.

His brown eyes flashed and he panted down at the detective, the gun pressing harder to a smooth temple. John slid the sight downward, almost caressing. Sherlock's eyes were wide, but not panicked, not fearful. He knew that his new roommate would not shoot him, no matter the provocation. "Of course not, you bloody sod," he muttered, glowering down. "As tempting as it is to shoot you." he went on.

Sherlock glanced sideways and just caught sight of the gun as it dragged along his temple. How curious that he was having a physical response to the threat. His cock was even harder, if possible, as cold steel rubbed along his skin. He bit back a groan.

"Well?" he finally bit out in irritation, when John did nothing, eyes locked to his movements with the gun. It was immediately shoved under his chin, forcing it to tilt back.

His white teeth sank firmly into his lip and his eyes dilated with want. He felt the need to completely submit to the man's aggressiveness.

"Well?" John growled in return, pressing harder with the gun. Good lord, it felt so...so... _thrilling_ to threaten the mighty Sherlock Holmes with his pistol. He was almost mesmerised by having the detective helpless under him. He was also swollen and leaking in his pants, which faintly horrified him, but he also recognised that he was turned on. He had never been attracted to another man in his life!

Why now?

Why for him?

Sherlock said something rough under his breath and his hips thrust up, rubbing their cocks together. As John seemed struck dumb, his mouth falling slack in pleasure, the taller man lowered his arms and grabbed his roommate's shoulders, ignoring the gun still shoved to his throat.

He rolled them over, reversing their positions again and glared down. "If you are incapable of action, then perhaps it is I who should take it."

* * *

Chapter End Notes:

Please leave me a review if you like it. I adore them. :)

The net chapter will be out in two days.

Also, check out my first published story on Amazon, called **The Honoured Guest**. It's published under the Author name **Aurelia Destiny**.


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